Sherlock Was Real
by Selvine das'Annwyn
Summary: Three years post-"The Reichenbach Fall", Watson finds himself on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Contains spoilers ? for "TRF". Suicidal themes. Non-Beta'd. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, or John Watson.**

**Warning: This fic contains suicidal themes.  
This fic is post-"The Reichenbach Fall". Contains spoilers for that** **episode.  
**

**A/N:** Alright, so as a first story for an account it's rather dull and poorly written, but I felt in the mood to do something based around how Watson would handle the events at the end of "The Reichenbach Fall", close to around when Sherlock would be revealing it was all a sham (based on timing in the original Conan Doyle novels).  
Obviously, this piece has not been critiqued/beta'd at all, so all reviews with improvement-based commentary is welcome. Though reviews, in general, are DEFINITELY encouraged.

I really hope you enjoy, or that this has some effect on you.

Thanks,  
Selvine

* * *

Silence echoed in the empty bleakness of the London street, though that isn't what a normal passerby would hear. To the many lost souls of England, London was just as noisy and belligerent as ever. To one, however, death had taken hold of the heart of the city and torn it to pieces. Reminders of that day were everywhere around him, and he never even had to look anymore. That man had made more difference in his life than any human ever should, but not enough to feed his cravings for more.

Hollow amber eyes stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the ground below. No emotion clouded their gaze, and yet the steel-hard stare remained distant and unfocused. Without trying, the man on the rooftop could easily tell you that the taxi driver across the street was having relationship problems based on the tilt of his cap and the wrinkles in his tie. The woman approaching the cab worked in a high-end job, but was contemplating quitting, obvious to anyone with a keen eye. Or with that man's voice constantly whispering in his ear, pointing out every detail. The soldier had learned to block out the unnecessary in order to maintain a level of sanity, and so in an otherwise noisy atmosphere, the world was silent.

_No blood stains…_ the soldier grimaced, frowning at the pavement of the sidewalk below him. _Of course not, they'd have cleaned by now._ Hospitals and the police force were usually fairly efficient about those sorts of things. Not good about the text he'd left sprawled across the building beneath his feet, though. _Sherlock was real._

Stiff, unyielding eyes shifted, taking in the roof across the way and cataloguing every nuance _Roofers – no telephone company._ Flicking between the two buildings, the man continued, the voice of his friend echoing his findings in his ear _New phone line. Disgruntled workers, cold environment. Argument about dangerous conditions and unpleasant suicidal scenery._ The doctor chuckled dryly at that. _Planks set up between roofs to make transportation of supplies and workers simpler. Abandoned toolkits implying workers went to lunch. Cigarette still smoking implies recently. Half and hour to an hour before their return, then_. The man nodded, that was more than enough time for what he had to do.

Short dirty blonde hair swept aside as the man looked out, across the sky, taking in the stark white of the cloud-cover around him. It smelt of rain, and the promise of an oncoming storm was ever present. Perfect weather for what he had in mind, perfect weather to keep eyes on the ground and not on the roofs above him. The last thing he wanted was for someone else to see the things he had. They didn't need the doubts. He was real, as real as the man he'd watched die. _Sherlock _was_ real._

Tanned thumbs worked their way over keys on the beaten up phone his sister had given him ages ago. A short, concise, and apologetic blog post was released and a contented peace seeped into the man's heart. Now was the time, now was perfect.

Eyes swept over the street in front of him, satisfied to see that as the first drops of rain fell, stragglers made their ways into nearby buildings. No eyes were turned his way, and with the rain coming down, no painful memories would be left behind. A soft sigh escaped thin, pink lips and eyelids closed. Bliss was here, in this moment. Nothing could ruin it, and the only thing to make it better would be if he could know that man was waiting. He had to believe.

Slowly, his feet moved to the edge of Saint Bartholomew's and onto the lip that protected the wary. He could feel his toes hitting the open air as the rain began to trickle around him, its pace slowly increasing. One foot inched forward with purpose, moving at an elegant, but sluggish pace.

_John!_ He knew that voice. It was deep, soothing, and held every bit of pain he'd felt in the past three years. How nice that as he walked toward his salvation, that man would let him know he was waiting, that man would tell him he was still there around him and that as he crossed he wouldn't be alone. Pausing, John waited, praying for more. _Sherlock _had to be _real._

_John! No!_ Ah, encouragement to keep moving. He didn't want John to keep him waiting any longer. A small smile started on the soldier's face as his foot moved again. This time, he could almost hear those lengthy legs and those slender feet making their way across the planks to aid him in his journey.

"No need, Sherlock…" his throat felt scratchy, sore from lack of use, and the words came out nearly inaudible, "I'm on my way." He could hear the pounding across the rooftop of a man determined to help him on his way.

"John, wait!" The doctor shook his head and smiled, breathing deep and leaning forward. He'd waited three years to hear that voice again, and he wasn't going to let a little thing like mortality keep him from getting to the source. He wanted to be with the man again, _needed_ to be with him. Others just didn't understand.

"John!" Watson nearly felt fingers digging into the elbow and back of his jumper and grinned. This was what he wanted. As the sensation became real, tangible, and John could almost _feel_ Sherlock's body heat, could almost _smell_ the soap the detective had always favored, a tear found its way town his face. Lightning crashed, thunder boomed, the torrential curtains came crashing down, and John Watson leaned forward and let his other foot fall. _Sherlock was real._

"_JOHN!_

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed the read, and please remember to review! Reviews make the world go 'round~  
Thank you, kindly.  
-Sel


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, etc.  
Warning: Suicidal themes, profanity, etc - why am I still doing this on the second chapter?**

A/N: So I know I said this was complete, and really it is. This chapter is NOT a confirmed bit of canon for this story, but rather a follow-up for those who'd like a bit of closure on the previous part. I'd been contemplating doing this, so when a couple people mentioned it or agreed that it would be a good idea, I decided to add it to my list of things "to do". I would do another, sadder version... but there isn't really much to say when John's gone. So I'll leave it at this.

Again, this is not necessarily the canon for the story. I like to write in multiverses - one cause can have multiple effects occurring simultaneously in endless universes. So while I may or may not have intended this to be the real ending for the story, I'll let you enjoy it under the pretense that it COULD be.

Aside from that, as per usual, this has not been beta'd, critiqued, edited, etc. Any reviews are welcome and encouraged, especially those with helpful criticism.

I honestly hope you enjoy this, and it would thrill me to hear from you.

Thanks,  
-Sel

* * *

"John" Sherlock gasped the word out, a prayer as he held onto his friend's elbow for dear life "Don't you _dare_ leave me here alone." Vehemence dripped off the detective's tongue as he struggled to drape his opposite arm over the side of Saint Bartholomew's to give himself a better grip on the falling soldier.

It had taken a moment for John to realize that Sherlock really was there and that he hadn't accomplished his suicide as planned, but once he had the man had struggled to clamber back up the building as much as possible. "_Me_ leave _you_? What the bloody hell are _you_ on about? _You_ left_ me_ you inconsiderate git! _I_ was trying to _join_ you!"

"Oh, how very dashing of you, you magnificent moron." Watson couldn't see Sherlock's face very well, but he could tell from the tone of voice that his old flatmate was rolling his eyes.

"_I'm_ the moron? _You_ committed suicide! In front of your best friend, for crying out loud!" Sputtering, the doctor continued clawing at the building. His nails were slightly bloody from his efforts by this point, but that didn't stop him from grasping onto the stone before him and pulling himself up as much as possible with each go. Slowly, but surely, he was making his way back to the lip of the roof.

An aggravated sigh escaped the young sociopath's mouth and his nails bit into John's elbow as he shifted, pivoting his feet against the raised edge of the roof and pushing back. The position was awkward and left the majority of Sherlock's lanky form flailing about in the cold London winds, but it was the best he could do in his attempts to pull his companion upward while England was molested by a seemingly relentless tempest. "_Obviously not._"

"But I _saw you_. I took your _pulse_, you sick megalomaniac!" John was having trouble avoiding drowning as he ascended the building and eventually latched his fingers onto the roof, but that wasn't going to stop him from yelling at the sorry excuse for a friend in front of him. "What kind of melodramatic, insensitive bastard fakes his own suicide and leaves his friends thinking he's dead for _three goddamn years_?"

Sherlock huffed, moving his hands to grasp at the back of John's jumper and tug him up higher, scowling as he went. "Oh, now you're exaggerating."

"_Exaggerating? _You. Were. Dead." The doctor was panting now, tumbling over the edge of the roof and landing on his back with a pronounced _THUD_. Exhausted, he lay there, the back of one hand against his forehead and the other over his nose and mouth, blocking the relentless downpour from his air pipes.

"Again, you saw none of the important details." Shaking his head, Sherlock lowered himself to the cement beside his companion, ignoring the puddles forming all around them. "Sometimes, you really are a blithering idiot. I gave you all the information you needed, or the skills to see that information anyway. All you had to do was believe." Derisiveness was second-hand nature to the younger Holmes brother, but that didn't mean he was necessarily prepared for what came next.

In a blur of dirty blonde hair, lightly tanned skin, and cream jumper, Watson was on the taller man in an instant, fists grabbing the collar of his shirt and pounding the slender man's shoulders into the rooftop. Anger was blatant on the soldier's face, eyes flaming with a mix of pain and hatred, and the love on can only harbor for those friends, family members, or partners they couldn't live without. Blonde eyebrows furrowed, the lines between them only accentuating the look of complete anguish that had befallen the man. "_How dare you_? Did you think it was going to be _easy_? Did you think I would just be able to laugh it off and think 'Oh, that Sherlock, what a kidder'? Did you think for one moment that I'd be coherent enough in my thought processes to actually figure out what disgusting, twisted riddle you'd left behind for me to solve? You. Left. Me. Here. To. Die. Alone." Each word was punctuated by a violent thrust of the detective's shoulders against the building beneath him, and tears had begun forming in the ex-military man's eyes. "I needed you, and you left me. You put yourself in front of a man with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and you _killed yourself_. You're _lucky_ I only decided to do this _today_, you _insufferable arse_." Watson had bent forward, his sopping wet hair brushing over Sherlock's chin, his forehead inches away from the man he'd thought dead for so long. "You were gone, and everyone else moved on, but I couldn't. How could I? How could I, possibly, Sherlock?" Eyes full of defeat raised to peer into those crystal-clear depths no one had seen in a long, long time "How could I move on; how could I live?"

Frustration seemed to take a hold of the doctor once more, as his right fist came flying forward and into contact with Sherlock's face. Strings of cursing in the most creative ways followed. The soldier moved off his friend and set about examining his knuckles, noting wryly that smacking those cheekbones could, in fact, cut open a hand. Miniscule cuts scattered over the tops of his knuckles, where bone had struck bone, and were glistening with moisture aside from the falling rain. "Goddamn bloody buggering bugger it. I was expecting to kill myself today, not to end up bruised and cut up and having to live through it all." Scowling, John caressed his hand, making a mental note to wrap it tight when he got home. The Captain left his eyes focused on the ground in front of him after a moment, refusing to look his partner in the eye.

"John…" Sherlock straightened himself and sat up, propping his torso up with his hands, scanning the man in front of him for clues and signals, uncertain as to where their interlude may lead. "John, I need a flatmate."

Shocked and irritated beyond all sane levels of aggravation, Watson's eyes flicked up to Sherlock's in an instant "No."

"But John— " the childish whine in the detective's voice left Watson rolling his eyes, looking at the elegant man pointedly and frowning.

"You owe me an explanation. So no."

"Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn't, so I did." The words came out pointed and simple, crisp with the annoyance Sherlock was no doubt feeling himself.

"Moriarty was going to kill _me_…" Watson eyed his companion for a moment "Unless you killed yourself?"

A nod. "You, Mrs. Hudson, the Detective-Inspector. You would all have died, if I had not, as I was at that point in time." Sherlock's eyes bore into Watson's, fierce and unrelenting, "Now. I need a flatmate. Please."

Sighing, Watson straightened, flicking water off of his hair and jumper as he did. Neither of them had noticed as the spring storm finished and came to an abrupt end, the rain steadily tapering off and then disappearing altogether. Only puddles and their sorry appearances remained as testimonies to mother nature's attack on the British population. "No."

"What— "

Watson held up a hand, silencing the man beside him. "Not until we've seen the others and straightened this whole mess out. Then you need to explain how you did this and why you did this _thoroughly_. Then, and only then, after monumental groveling will I _possibly_ say yes."

Glee filled Sherlock's eyes, peaceful and soft as it usually was in the moments where the doctor did something he found particularly endearing. Smiling softly, the detective wrapped his arms around his best friend and pulled him close, pressing his lips to the other man's forehead in a gesture meant to express the happiness he could not find a way to express vocally. A slight movement of his head and their brows touched, both men smiling in contentment for the first time in three years. Laughter, raucous and deep bubbled up from both of their chests, and followed them as they stood. The home they had both been missing had been found again. And, as they left the roof, they did so hand-in-hand, a smile on both their faces.

* * *

**A/N: **So yes... there we are. No, the kiss is not necessarily intended to be romantic. In this sense, I'm trying to address the deep relationship Sherlock and Watson have without delving into the realm of romantic. While the two love one another and in fact NEED one another to survive, those are the emotions I'm trying to emulate. I know I've had friends who've been like sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, or potential partners, and I've been comfortable kissing their cheeks or foreheads, etc. It's just one of those desperate gestures that shows just how deeply you care about the person you're with.

On the other hand, I won't say that the romance isn't a possibility. It's possible to romantically love someone without there being physical attraction, and it's possible to have both while still retaining a more familial affection all the same. In this case, they really do come across as two halves of one whole... but it's a delicate and confusing relationship that I don't think there are actually any words to describe as of yet. Which takes talent, IMO.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the piece, and I hope I'll hear from you in the reviews.

Thanks Again,  
-Selvine


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